


Crossing Bosporus

by salutationtothestars



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (not that kind of touching), Bromance, E/R - Freeform, Gen, Hair Braiding, Platonic Touching, a very light dusting of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/pseuds/salutationtothestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the little upset Marius causes at the meeting of the ABC, when Jean Prouvaire leaves he is surprised to find that Grantaire wishes to keep him company. It begins on the street, being assaulted by the wind, and ends, as all things do, in a cafe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing Bosporus

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly based on the original novel by Hugo. Written for the Grantaire to my Jehan, and designed to feature the possibilities of their friendship. Features platonic but affectionate physicality, hair braiding, perhaps slightly overblown metaphors, and a minor amount of Enjolras/Grantaire if you choose to look at it that way. Thank you for reading!

Jehan Prouvaire followed quickly on Combeferre’s heels out of the café, managing a small smile at the words Combeferre sang before he slipped back into himself and thought. His insides roiled slightly at the scene that had just unfolded before them, at the scene that poor Marius had caused. Everyone must be educated, he knew, no one truly comes to the light without leaving the dark, but he wished there had been more time for him to learn before he spoke so rashly. Now he was in Enjolras’s hands, so much the worse for him, and yet the better. Enjolras could be harsh, could be nigh on frightening, but no one could learn more about Patria than from he. Marius would understand.

Outside, on the street, the Amis gathered close one more time, to bid their farewells and promise to see each other, before each broke off and began walking in his own direction. To his surprise, Grantaire stayed close as Jehan started off towards his home, but he did not comment on it, and they walked side-by-side. For a moment they did not speak, the wind filling the silence as it occasionally gusted between the houses and buffeted at their backs. Finally, Jehan turned to Grantaire and tried to smile again. “What brings you down this street?” he asked, lifting up a hand to push his unruly long hair back behind his ears. “I have never seen you come this way after our discussions.”

“I shan’t go home now,” Grantaire said a little loftily, looking up into the heavens. “I left our revolution not nearly drunk enough. Another round of drinks for me, and I’ve not seen what cafés your way has to offer. I am,” he continued, giving Jehan a toothy grin, “quite tired of the ones that keep throwing me out.”

“Better for you to be out of this blustering,” Jehan said, struggling again to keep his hair from whipping forward into his face. “I have a fair walk still. Today, of all days, to leave home without a ribbon in my pocket.”

“Perhaps God is punishing you.” Grantaire leveled a soft elbow into Jehan’s side, a teasing quirk of his lips softened by a near seriousness in his eyes. “I heard you defending the lusty Jupiter against the singular Creator, Olympus against Heaven. Surely that did not appease Him, and we know well from the Greeks that the gods are jealous beings. As Io swatted flies, maybe now your hair swats at you.”

“It is a possibility,” Jehan mused, his left hand now sitting at the base of his skull to trap the locks in place, “but God wouldn’t be so petty. He is above that, I think.”

“You think. You don’t know.”

“To think is to feel, to feel is to believe. I needn’t know I’m right in order to believe it.”

They were quiet again for a short duration, before Grantaire laid a brief touch on Jehan’s right arm. “I have a ribbon,” Grantaire said, one hand already in his pocket. “But pulling it back won’t suit, not for today. Come with me and we’ll see it done.”

“I cannot stay,” Jehan warned, even as Grantaire’s pace quickened slightly and he took the lead. “There is much needing my attention at home.”

“Your flowers, you mean,” Grantaire said, reaching back to usher him along with a hand at his elbow. It was not controlling or gripping, simply there, and Jehan almost felt he was being escorted. “Your flowers and your books. I won’t keep you, or drag you down into drunkenness. Just come. There is no place to sit in the street.”

To sit? “Do you know where you’re going?” Jehan couldn’t help asking. He had said the area was unfamiliar, and surely he could get them to a café much more quickly. Grantaire laughed.

“Do you forget who walks with you?” Taking a deep breath through his nose, Grantaire exhaled again and said on a breath, “I smell wine in the air. That sense, at least, is still strong. I shall sniff a place out for us.”

~*~ 

On entering the place, his hold on Jehan’s elbow still comfortably present, Grantaire immediately called grandly for a bottle of wine to a table in ten minutes. The old mother nearby, idly running a cloth over a plate that was off-white but probably not meant to be, gave him a quick nod before disappearing. “Here,” Grantaire said, leading Jehan toward the back wall, “let us take care of this quickly, so you needn’t stay.” Pulling out a chair at a somewhat lopsided table, Grantaire turned it around so that it faced another chair and let go of Jehan’s elbow to gesture at it. Eyeing him, Jehan went to sit, but quickly found himself hauled up again. “We break convention today,” Grantaire laughed, turning him slightly so that to sit he would need to straddle the chair. Still not understanding, but trusting, Jehan sank down and rested his arms against the wooden back.

“I would not mind staying some other day,” he said, as he listened to the scrape of the other chair being drawn closer. “I have nothing against your company.”

“You might not now,” Grantaire said, tone light and conversational. It did not match the gravity of his words. Jehan almost turned, to see his face and determine that way, but there was a simultaneous creak as the other chair was sat upon and a huff of breath pushing into his hair. His spine straightened, his limbs froze, and if the breathing had continued, he might have panicked and demanded to leave. However, in the next moment the soft puffs of air withdrew, and hands took their place instead. “Extended acquaintance breeds contempt. Or,” Grantaire continued as he gently but efficiently ran his fingers through the little knots in Jehan’s hair, “that is what I have found in my case. In a little time you might find I am not worth your patience.”

“You give yourself too little credit.” Grantaire was certainly doing something with his hair, but it was not until two collections of it were pushed to sit a little distance on each side of the other that he realized what it was. “Are you braiding it?” he asked a little incredulously.

“I am.” He began to feel the process, subtle pulls and tugs on his scalp, pleasant the same way the hand at his elbow had been pleasant. With a sigh, he let his spine curve a little outward, relaxing his chin on his hands.

“I hope Enjolras wasn’t too harsh with Marius,” he murmured. The hands in his hair froze, only briefly, before they went back to their work.

“Enjolras has little time for people who are not useful to his cause,” Grantaire said, the words clipped and his tugs a little harsher. “What does Apollo care for mortals if they do not appeal to his standard of beauty?”

“All that is needed is perseverance and patience.” Jehan stifled a yelp as Grantaire yanked a little too roughly. Only a quiet grunt served as an apology, but he recognized it for what it was and forgave. From then on, his touch was soft again. “It is akin to teaching a stubborn child – you take what is in his head that is wrong, and replace it carefully with what is right. Not with violence, but with a gentle hand. Marius will understand what the revolution is to us, one day.”

“Some never do.”

Another silence fell, uneasy and filling the pit of Jehan’s stomach with an icy prickling. He thought for a moment before turning at the waist, his hair slipping out of Grantaire’s grasp. There was a reproach, but it was cut off when Jehan’s eyes met his and they stared.

“Enjolras cares,” Jehan said slowly, reaching back to rest a comforting hand on Grantaire’s knee. “I think he would like to see more of you, and of what you can do, but that does not mean he has no feeling.”

Grantaire’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I thought we were discussing Marius,” he said, his voice a little rough. Jehan rolled his shoulders.

“We were,” he replied, removing his hand from Grantaire’s knee and clasping the edge of his chair instead. Grantaire nodded, then jerked his head.

“I shall have to do that last inch over again, thanks to your squirming,” he chastised, but there was a brightness in his eyes Jehan had not seen before. He nodded in response, returned to his original position, and contented himself with composing silly little rhymes as Grantaire worked. The feeling was heavenly, he admitted, having someone else taking care of the mess that had become his perhaps too long hair, and by the time he heard Grantaire mumbling as he searched for the ribbon, he was almost near to falling asleep. As it was, he sat up a little straighter, and obediently held the braid as Grantaire used both hands to tie it into place. “There,” he exclaimed, lifting it once before letting it flop heavily onto his back. “That should keep your gadfly in check.”

“Thank you,” Jehan said, reaching up to touch it carefully while he stood and turned. “You have eliminated one of my greatest annoyances. I might ask you to teach me this one day.”

“‘Tis handy, when one has long hair in mind.” Grantaire gave him one of his usual smiles, full of bravado, but then it softened into something else. “Your words earlier,” he tried – then he faltered, looking, for once, unsure of what to say. Before he could try again, Jehan put a hand on his shoulder.

“The gods do not ask for perfection,” he said, gripping Grantaire gently and giving him a little shake. “They only ask that you try.” After a small hesitation, Grantaire reached up and gripped Jehan’s arm in return, just under his elbow.

“The wine, monsieur,” the old mother’s voice cut in, making them both start a little as she set it down on the table and disappeared again. At its presence, the moment was over, and they broke free of each other.

“Safe travels, Prouvaire,” Grantaire said, something of his familiar high tone returning as his hand went to the bottle. “May Hera’s jealous gaze rest far from you, and may you return to find your plants in bloom.”

“And to you,” Jehan replied, giving him a last smile before he turned to leave. Before he was out the door, he heard a piercing pop, and it gave him a moment’s pause. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the bottle was already to Grantaire’s lips.

The wind had not died down, and indeed made it hard to push the door shut behind him, but his hair stayed firmly in its place. He rather liked the braid, both for how it kept his vision free and for the way it looked resting against his shoulder. Perhaps, he thought as he strolled with his hands in his pockets and watched the clouds race each other above, he would keep it.


End file.
